


Admired

by Mytha



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/pseuds/Mytha
Summary: Cassandra is admired! Someone is sending secret poetry. She does not trust it.





	Admired

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipplesOfAqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipplesOfAqua/gifts).



The note had been slipped into her copy of _Swords and Shields_. Cassandra had found it when she picked up the book again. The handwriting was chicken-scratch, almost entirely unreadable, the paper of decent quality, the seal held a squashed daisy. Cassandra sighed and squinted at the smudged lines once more.

> _Filled with joy, filled with... nonnou? Filled with... lnouylts? Yearning and... ambling? Shuffling and weaving? Repeating yet pleading and dire with death? Alone in... the soul that loves. ___

____

____

_Love_. The word stood out. It alone was truly legible. _Love?_ The note was not signed. Who was writing to her – and _love poetry?_ She glanced around the yard. Was anyone watching her? No, people were simply attending to their own business, everything seemed as it always did. 

Well, if this was a prank, she would soon have the truth of it. If it was a secret admirer indeed, she would have to find him. Recent setbacks notwithstanding she _was_ a Seeker of Truth. She would follow the clues she had been left with to their solution. 

First – the handwriting. It was not a hand she recognized. Carefully, surreptitiously, she studied the missives arriving at the War Table over the following days with keen interest. If Leliana, Josephine or Cullen were surprised by her renewed involvement in these matters they did not show it. It was none of the scouts – their handwriting was perfectly legible. Not Sera – whom she had suspected initially, but whose messages, apart from being in a different hand, ran more towards the illustrative. 

Second – the poem itself. Scanning those volumes of poetry that were available to her at Skyhold proved an entertaining, but ultimately fruitless endeavor. Analyzing the meaning of what words she could decipher in the note provided unhelpfully changeable results. 

Third – the daisy. It was not part of any proper seal that she knew – and neither did Josephine. The Inquisition's ambassador did, however, know its meaning: Innocence, simplicity and cheerfulness. Entirely unhelpful leads to her. 

Finally – the paper. It was not of the same rough stock that the Inquisition used for its communication. Neither was it the vellum favored by enchanters and mages. It was just fine enough to speak of a more discerning sort of writer. _Of writer!_

Cassandra flew up the stairs to Skyhold's main hall. _Varric!_ Of course that dwarf would have something to do with this. 

“You might try the battlements, dear,” Vivienne suggested sotto voce, gliding past Cassandra as she stood at Varric's table, fists full of crumpled _oh-so-familiar_ paper. 

Enough was enough, Cassandra decided, making her way across the yard. She had endured Varric's teasing about her feelings, her love of his least popular serial – but this, _this_...

“Varric!” she spat, when she found him. The disgust, the betrayal – she stood seething. 

“What did I do now, Seeker?” Varric, who had been talking to the surprisingly tall Greta Hawke, turned to her with a sigh and a resigned look. It took only a fraction of a moment for his eyes to widen with alarm. “Look, I don't know what has got you so wound up, but I am pretty certain I am entirely innocent of whatever you think I did.” 

“Explain this!” Cassandra thrust forward the wad of paper still in her hand. 

Varric's brow furrowed in confusion. “I don't know what-”

“And this!” Cassandra pulled from her pocked the evidence of his crime. 

“I will say that this is the same paper I use,” Varric allowed, “but I did not write this, Seeker.”

“Then who did!” Cassandra demanded, cursing the tremor that shook her hands. 

Varric's eyes darted to the side where Hawke still stood, tall and – blushing? 

Cassandra's heart stopped. “ _You?!_ ” 

_Of course._ Hawke might easily have used Varric's paper. _Greta – Marguerite – Daisy!_

“I will leave you two ladies to it,” Varric said with hasty cheerfulness as he dodged past Cassandra. 

It was truly disconcerting how tall Hawke was. Cassandra's ire vanished, cowed by Hawke coming closer. 

“Forgive me.” Hawke reached out and took Cassandra's hand, still holding the poem, into her own. 

_Strong hands. Long fingers._ Cassandra swallowed heavily. “It is – a love poem?”

“Filled with joy, filled with sorrow. Filled with thoughts of you. Yearning and worrying. Suffering and dreaming. Rejoicing yet plunging to depths of despair. Happy alone is the soul that loves.” Hawke recited a little breathlessly. 

“Oh.” Cassandra softened at the words. “Is that what it says?”

Hawke nodded slowly, holding her gaze. 

“Champion, I-”

“Greta,” Hawke corrected.

“Greta.” The name felt heavy on Cassandra' tongue. “Thank you,” she said, feeling struck dumb. 

“You do not owe me an answer, Cassandra.” Hawke's eyes were earnest, but there was a twitch of mirth on the corner of her mouth when she added: “But I ask that you do not murder Varric. He really is my closest friend.” 

“I do – I won't!” Cassandra corrected herself. “Hawke – Greta – I am flattered. Thank you.” 

“You said that.” Hawke laughed and let go of her hand.

Cassandra felt the loss of touch keenly. “This poem. You really – you _yearn_ for me?”

“You are beautiful, Cassandra. Strong, determined – adorably bull-headed. I admire you. And, yes, I have yearned for you while you were gone. The Inquisitor simply must stop taking you away from Skyhold and instead finally go to Crestwood. Except, that would mean _I_ would have to leave – so you see that whole business is indeed making me fight _the depths of despair_.”

“Adorably bull-” 

“ _Beautiful._ ” Hawke insisted. “And more. I cannot promise much, but I would ask to be permitted to send you more poetry?”

“Only if you deliver it yourself.” Cassandra insisted, feeling emboldened. “Better yet – if you read it to me.” 

“Your wish, my lady, is my command.” Hawke bowed deeply. “Your hand?”

Cassandra extended it readily – but was not prepared for Hawke to kneel, to gently remove her gauntlet and the sensation of soft lips on her battle-rough hand. She could not stifle her gasp.

Greta Hawke gave her a conspiratorial wink before getting up, bowing and sauntering away.

**Author's Note:**

> With excuses to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe whose _Freudvoll und leidvoll_ I chicken-scratch-translated for the purposes of this fic.


End file.
